Smith shook his head. “Look, Jack, right now it’s just me asking you. But you get on that field and it’s going to be the New York Times and the Sporting News. You should think about it.”
“If they ask something, I’ll answer,” Jackie told him pointedly. He didn’t mean to snap at Smith, but this day was so important, he let his nerves get the better of him.
“All right,” Smith tried again, “but you know when you’re at the plate, you want to feel like you see the pitch come in slow? Well, you want to see the questions come in slow, too.”
Jackie didn’t say anything. He just glared at him for a second, then climbed out of the car. Smith watched him walk away, and sighed.
Out by the field, Rickey was sitting on one of the benches, fuming. When Parrott hurried over, Rickey shook a newspaper at him.
“Listen to this, Harold,” he declared. He pulled the paper open and began to read from it: “ ‘Whenever I hear a white man’ — yours truly — ‘broadcasting what a Moses he is to the Negro race, then I know the latter needs a bodyguard. It is those of the carpetbagger stripe of the white race’ — me again — ‘who, under the guise of helping, in truth are using the Negro for their own selfish interest, thereby retarding the race!’ ” He growled and crumpled the paper in his hands. “The minor league commissioner of baseball said that! I pay part of his salary! You wouldn’t stab me in the back like this, would you?”
Parrott shook his head, then finally managed to get a word in. “He’s here, Mr. Rickey.”
“He is?” Rickey rose to his feet at once. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Out on the field, two hundred white players stopped what they were doing as Jackie crossed the field, wearing his brand-new Montreal Royals uniform and carrying a glove and a bat. Reporters and photographers surrounded him immediately, and the burst of flashbulbs going off left Jackie reeling and partially blinded. Everyone was shouting questions at once, and Jackie had to concentrate to break them apart into coherent sentences.
“Jackie,” one reporter called, “do you think you can make it with these white boys?”
Jackie looked around, seeking help — and spotted Smith standing behind the others, just watching. He remembered what the other man had said. See the questions slow. So he took a deep breath, let it out, and used that second to think so he could answer clearly: “Sure, I had no problem with white men in the service or at UCLA.”
“What’ll you do if one of these pitchers throws at your head?” someone else asked.
Jackie gave himself a second before replying, “I’ll duck.”
That got some laughs.
“Jack, what’s your natural position?” a third reporter called.
At least that one was easy. “I’ve been playing shortstop.”
But then the same man followed up with “Are you after Pee Wee Reese’s job?”
Jackie looked over and spotted Reese watching with another Dodger he recognized, Ed Stanky. “Reese plays for Brooklyn,” he answered. “I’m worried about making Montreal.”
The first reporter hurled another question. “Is this about politics?”
Jackie shook his head and smiled. “It’s about getting paid.” He saw Smith smile and nod, and relaxed a little. He could do this.
Rickey had held back — this was Jackie’s moment, not his. But now, as the first barrage of questions died down a bit, he cut in, smiling and nodding as he drew Jackie away and led him across the field to where a middle-aged man in a Royals uniform waited. “Clay,” he said as they reached the man, “I’d like you to meet Jackie Robinson. Jackie, Clay Hopper, manager of the Montreal Royals.”
Hopper held out his hand. “We ain’t doing much today,” he told Jackie, and though there was a clear Southern drawl to his words, his voice and manner sounded neutral, maybe even a little bit friendly. “Just throwing the ball around and hitting a few. Why don’t you toss a few with those fellas over there?” He turned toward a kid in a Royals uniform. “Hey, Jorgensen!” The kid looked up. “Meet Jackie Robinson.”
By the end of the day, Jackie was tired, but feeling pretty good. He’d held his own with the Montreal players, and if some of them hadn’t warmed much to him, others had accepted him as just another guy on the team. And that was all he wanted.
Two of the Dodgers called out to him, however, as he walked past the buses to where Smith and his Buick waited.
“Hey, rook!” one of them, Higbe, shouted. “Did you hear about the redneck shortstop?”
The other, Bragan, followed up: “He thought the last two words of the national anthem were ‘play ball’!”
Jackie managed a smile, but he couldn’t help wondering if they were heckling because he was the new guy or because he was black.
Higbe tried again: “How about the shortstop making all the errors who tried to kill himself by jumping out on the highway?”
And Bragan finished the joke, “A bus just missed him. Drove right between his legs!”
A few of the other players laughed as the pair climbed onto the Dodgers bus and it pulled away. Most of the faces staring down at him glared or looked at him blankly. Only one, the young pitcher Ralph Branca, smiled and waved.
“ ‘Between his legs,’ good one,” Smith muttered as Jackie reached him. “He must’ve read a joke book. If he can read.” Jackie just climbed in the car without a word. Smith sighed, then beat a quick drumroll on the hood of the Buick. “Hi, Wendell, how are you?” he asked, then glanced over at his silent passenger and sighed again. “Well, looks like I got a long drive to Sanford.”
It was almost evening when they pulled up in front of the Brock house in Sanford. Mr. Brock stepped out onto the front porch to meet them. He was carrying a tray of tall drinks, the glasses glistening with condensation.
“Jackie,” he said as they reached him, setting the tray on a table so he could offer his hand, “I’m Ray Brock. Welcome to Sanford, Florida! The day belongs to decent-minded people.” He turned to Smith next. “Wendell, good to see you.
“My wife’s inside, cooking,” Brock added after the greetings were over. “You know what she asked me this morning? She asked me, ‘What do you serve when a hero’s coming for dinner?’ ”
Jackie scuffed his feet, not used to such attention. “I’m just a ballplayer, Mr. Brock.”
But Brock laughed good-naturedly. “Tell that to all the little colored boys playing baseball in Florida today. You’re a hero to them.” He gestured toward the tray, the table, and the rocking chairs beside them. “Sit down, have something to drink. My special rum and Coke.”
But Jackie shook his head. “No thank you, sir. I don’t drink.” Even if he had before, he wouldn’t now — there was no way he was going to let anyone paint a picture of him as a lush!
“A ballplayer who doesn’t drink?” Brock let out a low whistle, then shook his head. “That’s a new one on me.”
“I’ll have one,” Smith was quick to offer. “I’m a stereotypical reporter through and through.”
All three of them laughed.
“Mr. Brock,” Jackie asked, “do you have a desk? I’d like to get a letter to my wife.”
Brock clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course, this way.” He led Jackie inside, while Smith settled into one of the chairs and claimed one of the drinks. Jackie could tell already that, except for Rachel being back in Daytona Beach, he was going to like it here.
The next day, Rickey and Hopper watched the training game between Montreal and Saint Paul. Jackie was playing second.
“He’s getting by on a quick release,” Hopper commented, “but his arm’s too weak for short. Second base is his spot.”
“I agree.” Rickey frowned. “And I’ll state another obvious, Clay — I need the players to act like gentlemen around him.” Hopper just nodded, not taking his eyes off the field. “To treat him as they would any other teammate. To be natural, to impose no restrictions on themselves. To all work together in harmony.”
The whack of a bat solidly
connecting made him look up, as a low line drive shot for the gap between first and second. Jackie lunged forward, glove outstretched, and snagged the ball before it could hit the ground. Then he spun around and dropped to one knee, firing the ball back to first before the runner who’d just left there could make it back safely. It was a beautiful play.
“That was superhuman,” Rickey whispered, awed.
Next to him, Hopper chuckled. “Superhuman? Don’t get carried away, Mr. Rickey. That’s still a nigger out there.”
The offhanded comment, and the casual, everyday tone of it, stunned Rickey more than the play had, and it took him a second to process it. He’d known that Hopper was originally from Mississippi, but had just assumed his time in Montreal had worn away any rough edges from his childhood. Finally, however, Rickey found his voice again and said, “Clay, I realize that attitude is part of your heritage, that you practically nursed race prejudice at your mother’s breast, so I will let it pass. But I will add this: You can manage Robinson fairly and correctly, or you can be unemployed.”
Hopper didn’t reply directly. He didn’t even give any sign he’d heard his boss’s reprimand. But as Jackie headed off the field toward them, he called out, “Attaboy, Jackie! Way to turn two!”
Rickey nodded. That would do.
Late that night, the phone rang in Rickey’s hotel room. He sat up and answered, listening for a second as the caller identified himself. “Yes, Wendell, what is it?”
“A guy just stopped by the Brocks’ house,” Smith explained hurriedly. “Said there were fellas coming who weren’t too happy about Jackie’s being here. About him playing with white boys. And that it’d be best if we weren’t here when they arrived.”
Rickey frowned, though there was no one there to notice it. “I see. Yes, I understand. Wake him up and get him out of there. Put him in the car and start driving for Daytona Beach. Now. And, Wendell, under no circumstance tell him what this is about. I do not want him to get it in his head to stay there and fight.”
After they hung up, Rickey shook his head, then sighed and rose to his feet. He knew he wasn’t likely to get any more sleep that night.
Back at the Brocks’, Jackie sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed and only half-awake. Through his door he could see Smith in his own room across the hall, quickly packing his things.
“I was just getting loose,” Jackie muttered to himself, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe the dream was over that quickly.
Smith stuck his head in the doorway. “Don’t just sit there; pack your duds. We’re blowin’.”
A phone rang somewhere downstairs. They heard Brock answer, then call up, “Wendell?”
Smith headed down, and Jackie listened as the sportswriter took the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Rickey,” he heard Smith say, “I’m with him now. We’re pulling out for Daytona in five minutes, soon as he gets his bag packed. Yes, yes, it’s just one of those things.”
Jackie hung his head. “One of those things.” Not to him, it wasn’t.
They left quickly, barely pausing to thank the Brocks for their hospitality. The road was quiet at this time of night, with only a few bars still open. One of those stood at a street corner, and as they braked to a stop, Jackie saw a pickup idling there in its parking lot. A dozen men in shirtsleeves emerged from the bar to speak with the men in the truck. Then one of them glanced up and spotted the Buick and its passengers. He marched over, gesturing for Jackie to roll down the window.
“I wonder what he wants?” Jackie said aloud, already reaching for the window crank.
“To run us out of town,” Smith answered.
Jackie turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
The man was close now, and Jackie had the window open a crack when Smith suddenly floored it, sending the Buick shooting away with a loud screech. Another car was coming from the other direction, and Smith had to swerve to keep from hitting it.
“Seriously, Wendell?” Jackie found he was shaking a little.
Smith let out a breath, checked the mirror, and slowed down. “Man came by while you were asleep,” he explained. “Told us more men were coming. Maybe those boys. Mr. Rickey said to get you to Daytona Beach ASAP.”
Jackie stared at him. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Smith shrugged. “Mr. Rickey was afraid you wouldn’t leave, that you’d want to fight.”
Instead of getting angry, Jackie started to laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Smith demanded, his own fear making him snappish.
It took a second for Jackie to control himself enough to answer. “I thought you woke me because I was cut from the team.”
After a second, Smith started laughing with him. But as they drove on and the irony faded, Jackie found himself glancing back over his shoulder. How much worse can it get? he wondered.
A few days later, the City Island Ball Park hosted a game between the Dodgers and the Royals. Hundreds of people, a large portion of Daytona Beach’s black community, turned out to see Jackie play.
In the Dodgers dugout, Rickey munched on a bag of peanuts and gave voice to his thoughts, with only the team’s batboy to hear them.
“I’ve spoken to the mayor,” he told the boy. “I’ve explained how much money we’ll spend in Daytona. But still, when this fine young Negro man steps on that field today, he and the Dodgers will technically be breaking the law. A law which says white and black players cannot enjoy the same field at the same time. Does that make sense to you? Does Jim Crow make any sense when placed against the words of the United States Constitution? When placed against the word of God?” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you, it does not make sense to me.”
The young batboy wisely didn’t say anything at all.
Jackie stood in the on-deck circle, swinging two bats to loosen up. He watched as the Montreal batter ahead of him hit a line drive, and Pee Wee Reese sprang into the air like a bullet to take it down. No question about it, he was playing in the big leagues now.
As he stepped up to the plate, the announcer called out the words he’d been waiting to hear, “Now batting, the second baseman — Jackie Robinson!”
There was a mix of cheers and boos from the white sections, but the packed black section offered him a standing ovation, and Jackie couldn’t help but smile as he took his place and raised his bat.
“Come on, black boy,” someone called from the white sections, “you can make the grade!”
Another added, “They’re giving you a chance! Do something about it!”
Jackie nodded. He could do this. He concentrated on Higbe’s first pitch — then had to jerk out of the way to avoid getting hit by it.
Bragan, the catcher, chucked the ball back. Jackie could feel the man looking up at him, but refused to take his eyes off the mound. He remembered Bragan’s and Higbe’s jokes that first day, but he wasn’t going to think about that now. He was here to play.
Higbe fired again, even tighter than before, missing Jackie by an inch.
“Ball two!” the umpire called.
The third pitch was way outside, and Jackie didn’t move a muscle as it sailed by. Ball three.
“Come on, rook!” Higbe taunted. “Ain’t you gonna swing at something?”
Sure, Jackie thought to himself. Just give me something worth swinging at. He took a practice swing to show Higbe he could, then got back into position and waited. This time, the pitch was too low. Ball four.
A cheer from the colored section followed him all the way to first — and then turned to stunned silence as Jackie took a deliberately large lead off the bag. Higbe stared at him for a second.
“Well, throw over there, for crying out loud!” the Dodgers coach, Leo Durocher, commanded from the dugout.
Higbe obeyed, firing a fastball to Lavagetto. Jackie dove back just in time.
When the pitcher turned away, Jackie took a lead off the bag again, though he settled for a more modest one this time. As soon as Higbe loosed the
ball toward home, however, Jackie was off and running. Bragan saw him, of course, and hurled the ball to Pee Wee, but it was late and high and Jackie made it to the bag safely. He didn’t even have to slide.
He could see that Higbe was upset as Pee Wee tossed the ball back to him. Well, too bad. And as soon as Higbe threw his next pitch, Jackie took off again, this time gunning for third. But Bragan’s toss beat him there, and now Jackie was caught between players as the Dodgers tried to run him down. Good thing none of them had his speed! It was Higbe who finally came after him near the bag — and Jackie ducked under the attempted tag and managed to get a hand on third. Safe!
The entire stadium was buzzing now, and as he dusted himself off, Jackie could see Rickey pounding one fist into the other with excitement. He hoped the general manager felt he was getting his money’s worth.
Jackie stepped off third as Higbe returned to the mound. How closely was the Dodgers pitcher watching him? He feinted toward home, and Higbe took a step toward him. Normally, a player who was on base would head back at that, but Jackie held his ground.
“You’re supposed to go back to third when I step off!” Higbe shouted at him. “Don’t you know nothing?” He threw the ball, but Jackie beat it back easily. Then, as soon as Higbe turned away, he stepped off again. He rocked back and forth, getting ready.
Apparently, his restlessness unsettled Higbe. The pitcher started his delivery, glanced around, caught a glimpse of Jackie bouncing on his feet — and dropped the ball. The umpire spotted it and signaled a balk. Then he pointed Jackie home. Yes!
It wasn’t the way Jackie had wanted to score, but he’d settle for throwing Higbe off his game. This time. The colored section went wild with cheering as he sauntered across home plate. “Look at me, Ma,” he whispered as he reached the dugout. “Playing baseball with the white boys. And scoring offa ’em, too! Not too shabby!”
A week later, though, Jackie wasn’t having quite as good a time. The team was in DeLand, Florida, playing Indianapolis. It was the top of the first, no score, and Jackie had just dropped a bunt straight down the first base line. The first baseman fielded the ball too late to tag Jackie, so he tossed it to the second baseman — who was too far out to cover his own base. The ball sailed by him, so Jackie put his head down and made it to second base safely. It was a bunt double, and the packed colored section went wild.
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